giddy

The last couple of days, in spite of a major fallout with a good friend (a death of sorts), I've been finding bits of my Giddy everywhere (a rebirth of sorts)! Some was wedged in the medicine cabinet, right between face washes, lotions, toothpaste, and eye drops. Some I found in the closet, scrunched in with a bunch of photos of good friends and family. A little bit was scattered on the roadside, and another floating quietly in my cup of coffee. I'm hearing it through the stereo, I'm seeing it in people, I'm tasting it in my food, I'm smelling it in the air, and I'm feeling it with good friends, in Sunshine's arms, and abundantly in my spine. Every now and again, in some contexts, I sometimes I forget that's there. At any rate, my old Giddy is a little worn for the wear and has collected some gnarly scars, but it's good to have her back.

I still say I could die today, but I think that's the point. Whatever happens in this life and whatever choices I make, good or bad, I want to always feel like I could die any second with no regrets and no loose ends. Yes yes.... There will always be some loose ends, but I guess my goal is to minimize them. Living perfectly is impossible, so I know I'll continue to make my fair share of mistakes, and right now I'm good with that. The only thing left right now in this life would be goodbyes, but that's what the loose ends post is about.... Tying up emotional loose ends and making a final statement of love, respect, and admiration for my friends and family because... well... constantly dwelling in the heavy gets old, burdensome, and fucking annoying to be quite honest. It's fun to say "I love you." It feels good, but it doesn't have to be the final dramatic scene in a movie every second of every day. Intimacy, I think-- romantic or otherwise-- has a fundamental element of knowing and trusting at the very core that the love is there without having to cram it down each others throat or subject one another to an endless montage of power ballads and poetry. Don't get me wrong when I say this, as I cherish hearing Sunshine tell me he loves me, and my whole body warms when I express it to him; but I've previously made the mistake of falling into the slippery sinkhole of *excessive* external validation for myself and for others (still haunted by a most recent account), and it ultimately renders the words empty and the sentiment hollow and desperate. Without the core sense of trust, no amount of juicy, luscious words or deeds will quell the thirst for more. Intimacy and intensity, even as they pepper one another with layers of excitement and feelings, should not be mistaken for one another.*(*reference Betrayal Bonds)

As for now, it's time to give up this coffee shop table and get back on the road with my sweet Ecuadorian street mutt who's patiently gnawing at his rawhide as I type, periodically and bluntly looking up at the hurried passersby. It feels good to pass go in the slow lane today.

mom

Last year, she scared the hell out of us, and I realized the extent to which I take her for granted. As of this very moment, I'm house sitting/cat sitting/plant sitting/turtle sitting for her. There's a whole lot of sitting involved at Mom's place, and I have to catch myself when I start resenting that this responsibility falls in my lap every couple of months. I have to catch myself when I start feeling taken for granted. There's a little of that, sure. Of course there is, but I have to stop and consider how many times Mom has saved my ass. Granted, there's a whole other psychological and experiential history to all of this that I could start picking apart (and I have), and Mom and I certainly have our differences (and equally relationship-stunting similarities), but it boils down to this: she's doing the best she can, given her experience and I'm doing the best I can, given mine. We get hung up sometimes in our own versions of the truth, pride, anxiety, and moods, losing sight of the spectrum of perspectives, but in the end we both want the same things: for all parties to be healthy, happy, and secure.

Right now, as I sit at her dining room table writing this entry, I am acutely aware of the comfort I feel in her house. I remember that I am responsible for it when she is away because it is my home too, and I am grateful. This home is alive with her, and it's difficult to wrap my thoughts around the notion that she's winding down. She is what makes it home. Her open arms maintain this open door and this safe harbor.

Her mom, my grandmother, died after an extended, painful bout with cancer in her early--maybe mid--seventies. I didn't know her well, despite seeing her every Christmas. They weren't the most hands-on of grandparents and my primary memory of her has her sitting at her desk in front of the bright window in her bedroom. In my memory, she is always writing in her journal, smoking a cigarette. I am intentionally leaving out the more interesting, human details of this memory, because to include these would be to paint a less than flattering picture of her that wouldn't do justice to the dignity, grace, and poise that seemed to be woven intricately into her character. She and my grandfather, both, had a strong presence.

As I said, though, I didn't know her well, and beyond this memory, hers was my first introduction to death. I was around 12 years old and I remember only a few things about that time: that she was ready to die, and I was told she cried every morning she woke up, still in pain, still incapacitated. I remember that she didn't want pain medication because, even on her death bed, she didn't want to find herself addicted. I can only guess that part of this notion was not wanting her mental capacities to be as broken down and useless as her body felt. She still had her mind and her pride, and she wasn't about to give those up with everything else.

I also remember feeling bad that I didn't feel much. I thought I should be crying, but it didn't feel like my loss. It was everyone else's. It was a loss for those who were connected to her, and my only connection was one of blood, not heart. Now that I'm an adult, I feel the absence more I think. It's a curiosity, though. Not pain. I imagine she was an interesting person: tough, funny, beautiful, exciting and enchanting... but I don't know about loving or nurturing or tender or understanding. This woman that I never really knew is one of the infinite influences to the ins and outs, the quirks, the personality, and the character that comprises Mom. But, there we start going into the psychological stuff. It's interesting and it helps us navigate our relationship, but for the sake of this post, I'd rather just look at Mom. Does it matter what the individual pieces of a jigsaw puzzle look like, once it's put together? Nope.

Anyhow, Mom is coming up on her 66th birthday, and while she's very healthy, alive, and kicking (and building things, and gardening, and working, and painting, and playing tennis, and maintaining a general state of almost constant movement) she's made no bones about preparing for her eventual and inevitable departure from this world. My grandmother was also active and full of life, as I understand it, right until she got sick; and Mom has brought up the fact that she is nearing the age my grandmother was when she passed.

Whatever time we have left, whether it's 5 years or 45, and however we treat and see each other, whatever our differences, mistakes, hang ups, hold ups, blind spots, or misdirections... I'm grateful. I hope our time is longer, rather than shorter. I hope our bags don't pollute too much of our interactions. I hope we laugh more than we argue. And, I hope the Monsters, my infant niece and her soon-to-arrive baby brother, get a chance to personally know the magical, loving, nurturing, hands-on grandmother she is. I appreciate every day she continues to fly, spin, and buzz past go.

20 more years?

A woman in training mentioned how happy she would be if somehow, magically, 20 extra years got tacked on to her life. "Really?" I thought. "Now that's loving life. I bet she has kids. I bet she wants to see them grow and evolve as people for as long as possible." Not me. I can't seem to get excited about any of that stuff anymore. It's polluted. Well, that's not exactly true. Give me a few drinks and I might forget that most everything's gone flat and grey for a bit.... And then, the booze wears off and the depression gets heavier. Alcohol is a depressant, by the way, which is why I don't indulge often. There are days, moments, and people that I love. I mean, really, life is good. So maybe it's strange that right now part of my gratitude is knowing that I can die without worrying about anyone depending on me. My death would not destroy anyone. It would be tragic for the people who love me (see earlier post about loose ends), but I don't feel like I'm responsible for anyone. All my friends' kids have amazing parents and family to love them and raise them. My niece and future nephew don't need me. I am not needed, period. My dog would end up being someone's burden if I were to kick the proverbial bucket right now, but his days are numbered too. I guess, my death wouldn't put anyone in dire straights. Damn. I'm not in a very good place right now.

Funny thing is, once I write down these crappy thoughts, I feel better. The burden of depression lifts and I start to feel a little bit hopeful again. I see these words, my own warped thoughts, written out in front of my scrunched, heavy, weepy mug and it no longer feels true. The thoughts don't feel like they're really mine any more. It feels like I've cleaned out an emotional attic, filled with some other, more pitiful person's thoughts and ragged emotions. The dust settles after I write, I clean out the attic, and the light shines through. The space is cleared to make room for hope and growth.

friday night musings

Serendipity or fate? Who cares. I hesitate to get too excited, based on my history of excitement over what turned out to be glossy, shiny turd, but everything is lining up, I think. Work, love, community, family.... Values and life are looking at each other and making connections across the bar. Maybe they're even getting to know each other a little better, and finding a way to trust each other's intentions and devotion.

You see, there's a genetic predisposition for depression in my family, but life is lining up and I find myself universally, overwhelmingly grateful. But wait... there's something odd in my thinking. Things are amazing, I'm up to my eyeballs in gratitude, BUT I could call it quits now. Things are great and I have to keep myself from looking at the inevitable drop-- the what-ifs and the whens of life going to hell.... but it never really does. No matter what's happened or how devastated I've been, there's always been something onto which to hold tight, and I imagine there always will be. There will always be floaties to keep us from sinking if we just choose to see them. Even anger-- as uncomfortable as it may be-- is a powerful buoy and mechanism for change and good life. So, why do I fear the drop off, knowing that floating/flying will always be as much if not more of an eventuality as the drop? Oh well. I'll blame Dad's side of the family and a chemical imbalance.

Other thoughts for the day that seem to escape me as soon as I have them: fuck. I lost them again.... but they were profound, I swear! Well, maybe. In making that determination, I'll leave it up to you right now and to future me when I come back to read this and cringe. Oh! There they are: One of them was about my mom... and that's all I got for that one. I just deleted everything because none of it sounded like the world of thought in my wee noggin. The other went something like this: It takes work to keep humanity, tenderness, and understanding in mind. It's easier and more destructive to dehumanize and hate, just like it's easier to be lazy and deceitful than active and honorable. Monsters are created, not born.... It takes insight and a fuck of a lot of work to maintain humanity through trauma and pain. People in pain lash out.... A book I read years ago, Empire Falls, comes to mind for some reason. I might need to read it again, as I don't think I understood or appreciated all it had to say when I originally read it.

So, those are my thoughts for the day. Tomorrow, I will wake up, go for an ass kicker of a run with my sweetheart (complete with cartwheels, crabwalks, pushups, and whatever other torturous shenanigans we can throw in there at each mile marker), have a belated birthday beverage with and for him, dance a little, laugh a lot, and keep passing go. Life is good and laughing's my favorite. Goodnight world.

suicide and giving away power

We all hear of people--and maybe you're one of them--who talk about eating shitty food and smoking and drinking and not exercising because they say they'd rather live a short life enjoying these things and being stationary than live a long life of movement and exercise without them. It's a compelling argument, I'll agree, (and I am certainly not without my own vices!) but also an incomplete one. As far as I'm concerned, how long you live is beside the point. The real point is that neglecting our health means we could potentially live just as long, but with far more discomfort. Both my grandmothers and my paternal grandfather serve as prime examples. We're not just taking years off our life so that we just all of a sudden blissfully croak 15 years before we would have otherwise. We're poisoning ourselves, so that our bodies won't function. In neglecting our health, we're living a half life. We're living a debilitated life. We're choosing to live in discomfort, relying more on largely unnecessary medications* than preventative care (i.e. taking actual care of our bodies). Neglecting our wellness isn't just taking life for granted. It's taking our physical AND emotional comfort for granted. Yes. Our lifestyle choices DO, in fact, have an impact on our emotional wellness in various ways. Body and mind: connected, ya'll.


*For the record, I DO believe in the need for medications in some contexts! My point is that we are seriously and pitifully overmedicated for ailments which are largely preventable through lifestyle choices. 


Along these lines, it's not just about us not taking care of ourselves. I also think of people I've known who've attempted suicide. What happens when it's a failed attempt? What happens when the overdose only serves to cripple them, but not kill them? Then, they are at the mercy of the hospitals, which, as we've already discussed, will keep us alive indefinitely. In taking life for granted, they've ultimately given up their power and their option to choose life. 


So, what might we say to someone who is actively suicidal and can't even begin to imagine there is still light behind the clouds? How might we empower that person, rather than condescend and patronize and try to control? Show them their power. Show them their options. If they die or become incapacitated, they take away any and all other options. In trying to gain control by taking life, they actually lose control. In their current situation, show them that death is just one of many options, and it will always be available to them. No one can REALLY stop someone who is set on taking their own life, but maybe we can help them take the time to look at all the options... and in taking time and opening their eyes, they might see that light peek through after all. They might realize their own power and hope. 


I say all this because these stories are close to me. Just about everyone with whom I interact on a daily basis has been inundated with suicidal thoughts at one point or another. One person-- who is one of the most candid, sweet, determined people I've ever met-- find herself blinded to all other options, personal strengths, and coping strategies when faced with major life stressors and symptoms of illness. It takes hard work to fight off that blindness, and I've seen her do it, living to see day after day of laughter and connections. I've seen her and many others, against all odds, find their resilience and continue to pass go with gratitude and strength in their hearts. 


Whether the notions of one's imminent death are active and suicidal or passive and manifest themselves in poor lifestyle decisions, it's all connected, emotionally and physically. Eat better. Do better. Feel better. Pass go. 

not manic....

I'm not writing maniacally. Most of these posts were previously written, cut, pasted, and re-edited for blog purposes. Just sayin'.... The entries will slow down after today.


As for tonight, it's been a good day and it's good to pass go. Sweet dreams, computer. See you tomorrow. 


AH

web memorials

As so many others I have known, I fought it for a while, but many of us—across generations, genders, socioeconomic groups, races, cultures, and subcultures—eventually wind up joining some sort of online social network and/or creating a personal or family web page. For some, it is an additional way to communicate with loved ones, distant and near; for others, it is a way to meet new people and/or network for employment and business; and for many, it is a way to feel a sense of community and to have an opportunity to express themselves and connect with others without the limitations and social constructs and, perhaps, discomfort and awkwardness that in-person communication may indicate. Given the explosion of popularity of online communities, the growing creation of and participation in web memorials and virtual cemeteries as a bereavement ritual comes as no surprise. This relatively new phenomenon not only indicates a circular pattern of grief and its need for a voice in today’s linear and cacophonous society, but it also begets questions regarding social isolationism versus healthy interpersonal relationships in the midst of grief. These are the concepts addressed by Brian de Vries and Judy Rutherford in “Memorializing Loved Ones on the World Wide Web” (2004) and by Pamela Roberts in “The Living and the Dead: Community in the Virtual Cemetery” (2004).

Grief needs a voice. It needs a safe place to be heard—an accepting place and a patient place. Additionally, given the highly mobile culture in which we live, it needs someplace widely accessible. The creation of web memorials and virtual cemeteries as a grieving ritual fits postmodern society like a glove. As discussed by de Vries and Rutherford, unlike the highly communal sense of loss and grief reminiscent of colonial America, grief is now more commonly seen as an individual, personal affliction with a limited window for open expression. The Internet provides a valuable opportunity to grieve within a supportive, highly accessible (albeit virtual) community and process the loss without concern for whether or not the grief fits current social expectations of emotional display, length of grief, who ‘should’ grieve, and who ‘should’ be grieved. Web memorials provide a ritual to address the circular grief that society at large no longer seems necessarily capable of supporting.

The virtual community feeds the need to talk about the loss—even to talk to the lost—and allows the bereaved to process their feelings and participate in catharsis without the sense that they could be burdening others with their grief. Cyberspace is a perfect postmodern venue for maintaining relationships with our deceased loved ones without judgment. It is a “way to stay connected, no matter the distance or time” (p. 65). Evidence also indicates that this new ritual does not generally foster isolationism and is not a manifestation of clinical maladies, but is, instead, another way to remember and honor lost loved ones with the support of other families and individuals. Web memorials are interactive communities where people are able to share stories, ideas, comfort and support in the midst of difficult times.

Cyberspace offers a much-needed community, including the four elements described by McMillan and Chavis that are key to creating a psychological community: membership, influence, integration and fulfillment of needs, and shared emotional connection (1986, as cited by Roberts). Provided online is a place for the disenfranchised mourner, a virtual ear for the stories of the bereaved, and an accessible quiet venue for remembrance. While these communities may not be physical, the psychological and emotional connections that are made are no less real for those who visit them.

Considering disenfranchised mourners, I cannot help but think of my dad as an example. When my former stepmother (they had divorced) passed away in 2003, her body was cremated, the ashes were scattered at Lady Bird Lake (amid a host of poison ivy); and she specifically required that my dad be barred from any of her funeral proceedings. I suppose she was so finished with the idea of my dad that she wanted distance in life and in death. I can only speculate on her reasons, but the end result is the same: my dad’s grief, to this day, has been left stunted. My dad even jokes at the idea that the ashes were intentionally spread in poison ivy as an additional safeguard against visiting the memory of my stepmom! Perhaps, given my dad's pariah status in the community of her ex-wife, grief could be unravelled and processed and supported via website. Maybe Dad could find that there is more support and connection than previously assumed. Maybe the lines of communication stemming from that marital history could be reconnected and healed. “Online communication becomes not a substitute for direct communication, but rather an aid in communicating both on and off line” (p. 72).

References

De Vries, B., Rutherford, J. (2004). Memorializing loved ones on the world wide web. Omega—The Journal of Death and Dying, 49(1), 5-26.

Roberts, P. (2004). The living and the dead: Community in the virtual cemetery. Omega—The Journal of Death and Dying, 49(1), 57-76.